Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben grinned. “I wonder how much they'd scream if I was living in sin with a man?"

  “Get serious, Raines! Are you going to marry the lady?"

  “No.” His answer came quickly.

  “Do you love her?"

  “No.” Just as quickly.

  “She loves you?"

  “I ... don't think so, Lamar.” Ben leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk, his chin in his hands. It made him look like a schoolboy. “Can I talk to you man to man, Lamar?"

  “Shore."

  “I'm fifty-four years old, Lamar. And I truly don't believe I've ever experienced the emotion of love. God knows I've written about it many times; but as far as my actually having known it—no."

  “Great the fall thereof when it smites thee, Ben. I could have sworn you and Salina were in love."

  “I ... felt something, Lamar. I really did. I spoke the words to her just before she died. But I lied.” He shook himself like a big shaggy dog might shake off excess water. He pushed the memories from him and shifted topics. “Did you know Dawn has a degree—a master's degree—in science?"

  “No. But it doesn't surprise me. Why'd you bring it up?"

  “Because I'm going to put her in charge of the newly formed EPA."

  Lamar had to say it. “Congress won't like it."

  “I don't give a shit what Congress likes or dislikes,” came the expected reply. “If they dislike too much, they can carry their ass home. You wait until next week, when I abolish about fifteen departments—then listen to them holler."

  “Will I be able to hear it in the Tri-States?"

  “Hell, yes. And you won't even have to turn up your hearing aid."

  Chase told the president of the United States where to shove that last remark.

  * * * *

  “Do you love him, Dawn?” Rosita asked.

  Dawn smiled at the feisty little Irish-Spanish lady. They shared an apartment in Richmond, Rosita electing not to accompany Colonel Ramos back to the southwest. She worked with Dawn.

  “No,” Dawn finally answered the question. “No, I don't, Rosita. I ... have a warm feeling for Ben, as he does for me. But love? No."

  Her next question surprised Dawn. “Well, then who does he love?"

  But, she mused silently, perhaps it isn't so surprising after all. For haven't you asked yourself that question many times? “Rosita, I don't believe he has ever been in love."

  “A man of his years and experience?” the petite brunette asked doubtfully.

  “I didn't say in heat."

  And both women laughed. "Sí," Rosita flipped her fingers as if they were burning. "Yo caigo en ello."

  “Yeah, I just bet you catch on."

  Rosita was silent for a moment, then asked, “Jerre?"

  Dawn shook her head. “No. But I think that's the closest he's ever been. He worries about her a lot. I wish I knew where she was. What was happening to her. Everybody I've talked with says she was a good person."

  “You used the past tense, Dawn,” Rosita said gently.

  “I know,” Dawn replied.

  * * * *

  Jerre looked out at the first snowfall of the year in central Illinois. In the room behind her, Lisa and several of her friends sat and talked and laughed. Jerre knew the teenagers had come over just to cheer her up, and she should be grateful for that—but she wished they would just leave her alone.

  “Jerre?” Lisa called. “You better come on ‘fore this pie is all gone. It's pretty good."

  Jerre forced a smile and turned around to face the small group. “I don't think so, girls. Thanks anyway."

  Lisa rose from her Buddha-like sitting position on the floor and walked to her. “Jake says Hartline can get rough and mean at times. He got that way with you?"

  That was the problem, Jerre thought. He had not. The mercenary had been every inch a gentleman. And, she fought to hide her smile and the dark humor that sprang into her brain, Hartline had more than his share of inches. “No, Lisa, that isn't it at all. I just want to go home."

  “I was afraid of Jake at first,” the girl confessed. “But he's changed in just the time I've known him. I ... know he's done some very bad things. Awful things, I'm sure. But with me he's always been real gentle. Sometimes I even think he loves me. He doesn't like Hartline."

  Jerre thought she might see a way out of this mess. Maybe. “Jake really does want to farm, doesn't he?"

  The girl's face brightened. “Yes—yes, he really does. Lately that's all he talks about. Getting away from here and maybe moving away—up in the northwest someplace...” She trailed it off, her eyes clouding with suspicion. “How come you askin’ all these questions?"

  Jerre shrugged. “You came to me, Lisa. I didn't come to you."

  The girl smiled. “Yeah, that's right, ain't it. I guess some of Jake's feelings have rubbed off on me. I'd like to talk to you some more, but ... I ain't real sure I can trust you."

  “You can trust me, Lisa. If there is anyone in this area you can trust, it's me."

  “I kinda believe you, Jerre. I want to real bad, you know?"

  “How much education do you have, Lisa?"

  “Not much,” the girl said bitterly. “They didn't get the schools goin’ where we lived ‘til I was ten. I guess maybe I got a sixth grade schoolin'. ‘Bout as much as any kid my age."

  “Ben Raines is going to get all the schools going again—real soon."

  “Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something, Jerre?"

  “Certainly."

  “Is Ben Raines a god of some sort?"

  “No, Lisa. Ben is no god."

  “Then how come he can do all these things in so short a time?"

  That stumped her. For in the three weeks Ben had sat in the office of the president, he had accomplished quite a lot. Again, she fought to keep from smiling. Including, she had heard on the radio, hanging about fifty people for various crimes.

  “Some people say he is,” the teenager persisted. “They said any man who's been shot up as bad as he's been and not die from it ... got to be a god."

  So it's spreading, Jerre thought. And not just among Ben's own people. Maybe, she thought, there is a way out.

  “All right, Lisa,” Jerre said, the lie building in her, leaving a bad taste on her tongue. “Yes. I'll level with you. Ben ... is different from other people.” Not a lie. “I've seen what happens to people who make him angry.” Sure have. “It's not very pleasant.” Sure isn't. “You don't want to make him mad."

  The teenager backed up a step. “He ain't got no call to be mad at me."

  “Not yet."

  “What you mean, Jerre?"

  Jerre fixed her gaze firmly on the girl. “You know exactly what I mean, Lisa. And you'd better not tell anyone about this conversation, either."

  “I promise I won't, Miss Jerre,” Lisa whispered. “But what can I do to help?"

  “To help whom?"

  Lisa gulped. “You, I guess."

  “That is something you'll have to decide for yourself, Lisa."

  “I'll think on it, Miss Jerre. But ... something is troubling me. If Ben Raines is so powerful, how come you're still a prisoner here?"

  “Haven't you ever heard about how gods move in mysterious ways?"

  “My folks said there ain't no God in Heaven; and no Jesus Christ, neither. But I've heard that line you just said."

  “Think about that, Lisa."

  “Do I have to?"

  “What do you think?"

  “Seems like you're sure putting a lot on me, Miss Jerre?” Jerre's only reply was a cold look.

  “Is there a shrine to Ben Raines, Miss Jerre?"

  Jerre thought of Tri-States; of the twins. “In a way, yes, there is, Lisa. And it's beautiful."

  The girl sucked in her breath. “I sure would like to see that someday."

  Jerre took another step toward freedom. “You help me, Lisa, and I promise you you'll see it."

  “I'd be scared!"

&nbs
p; “No need to be."

  “I'll think on it, Miss Jerre. And I won't tell nobody. Cross my heart."

  Jerre wanted to weep at the teenager's ignorance. Instead, she put her hand on Lisa's arm. “I know I can count on you to do the right thing, Lisa.” She smiled at her. “We'll talk again. Come back anytime."

  “I'll sure do it, Miss Jerre."

  Jerre watched them leave the house. They waved at the guards stationed around the home. Jerre turned her back to the window, gazing into the fireplace, blazing with fire and warmth.

  “I don't know what I've started here, Ben,” she murmured low. “It may mushroom all out of proportion. But please forgive me if it does. I just want to get out and go home. I want my babies!"

  * * * *

  Matt drove down the west side of the Mississippi River. He had skirted Dubuque, picked up Highway 67, and would cross into Illinois at the bridge at Savannah. He had a general idea where Hartline had made his headquarters. Matt stopped and looked at his map. He had drawn a crude circle in red.

  The circle had Peoria almost in the dead center, the line running from Galesburg to Macomb to Springfield to Decatur, then northeast to Farmer City. Then it began a gentle curving north through Gibson City and Chatworth. At Chatworth, it curved northwest to Streator, running straight west for about fifty-five miles to just south of Kewanee. Then the line dipped southwest back to Galesburg.

  On a much larger map, Matt had cut the area into quarters, each road in the quarter a different color. He would take them one at a time, just like pieces of a pie. He would find Jerre.

  And he would kill Hartline.

  * * * *

  About twenty-five miles north of Terre Haute, Indiana, Ike and his team, made up of ex-SEALs, ex-Green Berets, ex-Marine Force Recon, and ex-Rangers, said their good-byes and good luck.

  “You all know what to do without me goin’ over it again,” Ike told the men. “For the next few months Hartline is somewhere within a ninety-mile radius of Peoria. Word we got is come next spring he'll be movin’ up to Iowa to set up his HQ. We got to find him ‘fore then. You boys take care."

  They were gone in teams of three. They would circle the area and on the third day would move in simultaneously. The men drove ragged pickup trucks; but the engines were perfectly tuned and the rubber was new ... They looked like movers and drifters, aimlessly wandering the countryside.

  They were anything but.

  * * * *

  Captain Dan Gray halted his team at Quincy. “Killing Hartline would be gravy on the potatoes,” he told them. “Just remember our primary objective is getting Jerre out. I have not been in contact with General Raines, but I have a gut feeling he's sent others in ahead of us. So be careful; we don't want to mistake any of them for Hartline's men, or be mistaken ourselves for Hartline's men. Let's go, boys and girls. Good luck and God speed."

  * * * *

  And Jerre stared out at the snowfall in a small town just ten miles from Pekin, Illinois.

  She waited.

  Four

  Roanna Hickman and Jane Moore sat talking in the NBC offices in Richmond. Other reporters and commentators sat quietly, listening. All of them had a hard decision to make. Unpleasant either way they went.

  “Have you been back to see Sabra?” Roanna asked.

  “I can't go back there; can't look at her,” Jane replied. “It's ... I just want to cry."

  “The doctors say she's going to be all right—in time."

  “She'll never be back here,” Roanna said bitterly. “Never. We all know that. But we're dancing around what we gathered to speak of. And it wasn't Sabra's mental health. Let's discuss our ... president,” she softened the last word.

  “Son of a bitch is not my president,” a man spoke. “High-handed bastard is a dictator."

  “Is he?” Jane “Little Bit” Moore asked. “Seems to me it's taken him less than a month to do more than anyone else has accomplished in a decade since the bombings."

  “And everything he's done has been accomplished by spitting on the constitution,” the man countered.

  “Oh, fuck the constitution!” Roanna lashed out, surprising no one. She had been a staunch supporter of Ben Raines since her return from the Smokies.

  Several of her male colleagues wondered if Raines had gotten into her panties. Several other female colleagues wondered if she might have fallen in love with the Rebel general. The more objective of the group wondered if she saw something in the man they might have missed.

  “Goddamnit, Jim,” Roanna continued, “he's making things work again. He's feeding the very young and the very old; he's opening factories and creating jobs; he's..."

  “No one is denying any of that, Roanna,” a black reporter said calmly. This reporter had survived the bombings of ‘88 and continued to go about his business of gathering news and reporting it, fairly and objectively. “There is no in-between with Ben Raines ... not among the people I've spoken with. It's either love or hate. But the point is: Do we—as reporters and commentators—condone what he is doing, in other words ignore the gross violations of the constitution and the Bill of Rights, or do we report on those violations as we see them, without giving the man's credits equal time? I certainly don't agree with everything he's done and doing, but by God, he's got to be given some credit. And I, for one, intend to do just that."

  “Len,” a woman spoke. “Could the fact that he appointed a black VP have anything to do with your decision?"

  She wilted under the man's steely, unwavering gaze. “I won't even dignify that with a reply, Camile. If you care to recall, sixty percent of those men and women he had hanged or will hang in the near future, are black."

  She sat down, but another woman picked it up. “Len, that is another point that can't be ignored. He..."

  “Ms. Daumier,” Len's voice stopped her in midsentence. “Those people were murderers, rapists, terrorists—scum! They were not acting out of survival; not out of self-defense—they were behaving in a manner not even befitting a rabid dog! I, for one, do not care to return to the days of the ‘60s and ‘70s, when those types of people were slapped on the wrist and given sentences so light as to be ludicrous. Now, I have had my say. I will report on the president's excesses and accomplishments. I am not being paid to editorialize or find fault. Good day.” He walked out of the room.

  “I could not believe my ears when the president of the United States said, day before yesterday, if a person is attempting to break into your home, be it tent or mansion, feel free to shoot his ass off, because crime is not going to be tolerated in this nation.” The reporter allowed his outrage to overcome his overt liberalism. “Jesus Christ!” he blurted. “The son of a bitch is no more than a savage himself."

  “And you're as full of shit as a Christmas goose!” Roanna told him.

  “I beg your pardon!” the man's eyes widened.

  Roanna got to her feet. “I said..."

  “We all heard what you said,” a man's voice stopped the dispute before it got out of hand. The president of network news had entered the room quietly, without being noticed. Robert Brighton was another of the survivors of the bombings of ‘88—a man in his early sixties. Brighton was another of the objective-type of reporters. He had once stated, publicly, that anyone who satisfied themselves solely with TV news, would probably grow up to be a half-wit.

  “We didn't know you were flying in from Chicago, Mr. Brighton,” a reporter said.

  “I didn't fly in,” Brighton said. “I drove. I wanted to see for myself some of the horrors our president has perpetrated—according to some of my news reporters, that is."

  Several men and women began taking more careful note of their shoes, the ceiling, the walls, anything except the eyes of Robert Brighton.

  “But, by golly, gang—guess what I saw?"

  More shuffling of feet and averting of eyes.

  “I saw smoke coming out of factory chimneys that have lain idle for almost twelve years. I saw men and women going to work for
the first time in years. I saw men and women of Raines's Rebel army giving food and warm clothing and blankets to the elderly and to those with small children. I didn't see federal police—but I saw some of these new peace officers; talked with some of them. They seemed like pretty nice guys to me. Capable of handling themselves if need be, but also capable of using a large degree of common sense as well—something that has been lacking in our federal police for some years since the bombings."

  “Mr. Brighton,” a man got to his feet.

  “Save yourself some grief, Harrelson,” Brighton frosted him with a glance. “And shut your goddamned mouth."

  “I don't have to be treated in this manner,” the man's face expressed his shock.

  “Then carry your ass to ABC or CBS or CNN—if they'll have you. Which I doubt. Now you people listen to me,” Brighton said. “Listen well.

  “This is make-or-break time for our nation. Can you all understand that? Make or break! Yes, President Raines has and will do some things that will—if you all will permit the use of an outdated word—outrage your liberal minds. It's a hard time, people. The world is still staggering about, many nations still on their knees; it's doubtful if some of them will ever get to their feet.

  “And you people are nit-picking. Nit-picking because a few are complaining while the majority is happy to be going back to work; happy that crime is dropping so rapidly the statisticians can't keep up with the decline; happy to have a pay check in their pockets; happy to be alive. And you people are whining and complaining—setting yourselves up as the conscience of the nation; the upholders and guardians of liberty and freedom.

  “Get off Raines's back. Let the man put the nation back together again—he can do it. When it's together once more, he'll step down and hand the most disagreeable job in the world to some other sucker."

  Jane Moore stood up. “Am I to understand we are not to report on Ben Raines's excesses, sir?"

  “I didn't say that, Bitty. I said get off the man's back. I've just come from a meeting with the department heads of all the majors—we've agreed to give him a chance. Ben Raines, in case any of you missed the placement of the pronoun, and I want it to be very clear. And just to make it perfectly clear,” he looked at Roanna. “You're in charge of this flag station."